


Interruptions

by DT Maxwell (Draya)



Series: Our Blades Are Sharp [20]
Category: Star Wars: The Old Republic
Genre: (and occasionally still knocks heads together), Diners, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Nar Shaddaa, Retirement, for a given definition of retirement, instead of doing contract killings or bodyguard work Arty bakes and cooks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:49:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1754511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draya/pseuds/DT%20Maxwell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, <em>Arty Sometimes Wishes She'd Opened the Diner a Few Levels Higher</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Interruptions

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my [tumblr](http://dragons-bones.tumblr.com/post/72877375765/swtor-interruptions-or-arty-sometimes-wishes-shed) in January 2014.
> 
> Arthanasia "Arty" Renatus is the eldest of the Renatus sisters. She retired from bounty hunting in her early to mid-thirties, and opened a diner, Hunting Feasts (I am forever proud of that awful pun), a few levels up from Nar Shaddaa's Undercity. When she's not on the line or managing the day-to-day business of the diner, she's putting the fear of God into anyone stupid enough to try to strong-arm her for protection money, gangs and Hutts alike.
> 
> Arty's a BAMF and does not have time for your bullshit.

Arty was in the middle of decorating the day’s specialty dessert, a pretty zherry cake covered in rose-like swirls of red frosting, when the would-be robber walked into Hunting Feasts, came over, and stuck a blaster in her face while demanding she empty the till.

The three preteen girls - a Weequay, a Sullustan, and a Togruta - who’d been sitting kitty-corner to Arty and watching her work tensed up, staring with wide eyes, but immediately put their hands flat the countertop, palms down and fingers spread wide. Arty glanced at them out of the corner of her eye, tilted her head down a fraction in an approving nod, and turned her attention to the robber.

He was human, average height, hair dull brown and greasy, clothes covered in grime. He was sweating heavily, his hands shook wildly, and his eyes were bloodshot, with the pupils blown wide.

Great. Spicehead on a downer. Arty resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“I said, hand over the credits!” he shrieked, voice cracking on the last syllable. Arty gave him an unimpressed look, arching an eyebrow.

“Or what?” she said.

“Or I put a blaster bolt between your eyes!”

“Kinda hard to do that with the safety still on.”

“Wha-“ The spicehead glanced down, and Arty used the distraction to smash the heel of her palm into his nose, lightning quick. He screamed and dropped his blaster to clutch his nose, blood pouring between his fingers, and Arty brought her other arm up to drive her fist into his throat.

The would-be robber choked, trying to draw in air through his collapsed windpipe, eyes wide in pain and shock as he dropped to his knees. Arty picked up the blaster from the countertop, thumbed the safety off, leaned over the counter, and shot the spicehead once in the chest and once between the eyes. The corpse fell over.

The three preteens leaned over to examine it disdainfully. “You’d think they’d learn by now,” the Togruta said. Her friends snickered in agreement.

Arty flicked the safety back on and put the blaster under the countertop. “I don’t recommend doing that without proper training or experience,” she said to the girls. “You never know when they’ll be smart enough not to look away.”

They all nodded and said, “Yes, Arty!” in unison.

“And always double-tap: head, heart. With most species, you’ll get at least _one_ vital thing.”

“Yes, Arty!”

Yeltz, her chief line cook, poked his head out from the kitchen said, “How many?”

“Just the one,” Arty said, picking up her icing bag and returning to the task of frosting the rose-swirls onto the zherry cake.

Yeltz sighed and yelled as he went back into the kitchen, “Pol! It’s your turn on disposal!” There was a muffled curse, and an annoyed Devaronian male came out. He walked around the counter, shaking his head when he saw the body, and leaned down to pick it up by the ankles, walking backwards toward the door and dragging the body with him.

“Bucket and mop are back behind the counter here, Pol,” Arty said as he hip-checked the door open.

“Yeah, yeah, no worries, Boss, your floors will be spotless, you despot.”

Arty laughed and turned her attention back to the girls as she decorated the cake. “So how was school this week?” she said. “Do all right on that economics exam?”

The girls groaned.


End file.
